


Resilience

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Napoleon is forced to leave Illya behind in the hands of a vindictive THRUSH, time is limited to report the location and return for the rescue. Depictions of torture in this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resilience

**The prompt: "Friendship needs no words – it is solitude delivered from the anguish of loneliness."** **~** **Dag Hammarskjol  
~~~~:**

  
 Napoleon Solo was not a man who could give up easily.  It simply was not in his nature to submit, whether it be to the harsh realities of his profession or the subsequent consequences he often endured for being on the side of right.  The bad guys seemed to have a monopoly on inflicting the most pain and suffering, which was as it should be if one were to award credit for evil.  
  
Currently, the usually dapper UNCLE agent was knee deep in a bad situation and lacking the usual backup he should have had.  Illya Kuryakin was still in the hands of a THRUSH chief named Wilfred Beecham, whose sole aim in life seemed to be directed towards inflicting the above mentioned pain and suffering on the men who worked for Alexander Waverly.  The duo that occupied the top positions in the Northwest had decided there was something personal involved.  Unfortunately for them, targeting Waverly’s favorites (Beecham’s words not theirs), had become something of a sport for the aging Brit, and they were considered fair game, at all costs.  
  
As Solo sat crunched between a boulder and a big rock, he looked around to the surrounding terrain, noting that spring had not yet touched this spot.  The trees were not yet decorated with green, and the absence of color seemed to make Napoleon’s thoughts tend to a grimness not usually found in him.  
  
Illya had looked in bad shape as the Russian demanded that his partner take advantage of the opportunity to escape.  The man guarding the two UNCLE agents in Beecham’s absence had let down his defenses, not fully informed regarding their capabilities even under these circumstances.  It was a fluke, an obvious oversight on the part of an unfortunate guard whose life was now snuffed out by Solo’s quick response to fate.  
  
Napoleon had protested when the subject of leaving alone was brought up, but he knew Illya was right; This location needed to be reported and to linger, to risk never getting free of it would violate everything they had been trained to accomplish.  Expendable was a word they only jokingly referred to in the darkest of moments, but it was a reality in their line of work.  It’s what they had signed on for, an indication of how truly unhinged a person had to be in order to take on the task of saving the world.  
  
Napoleon knew the way back to the village below, a little cluster of buildings that hardly constituted a town.  There would be a phone there, however, and to the best of his observation about the folks who populated it, they were not controlled by Beecham.  He expected to be able to place a call back to headquarters and then go back for Illya with reinforcements.  He only hoped it wouldn’t be too late.  
  
As the battered agent rose from his rock retreat, he noticed one straggly branch that sported a lone blooming flower.  It was a magnolia bloom, and had apparently persevered long past what could be expected of it and bloomed atop an unattached branch.  Something in the sight of it made Napoleon doubly sure that his partner would survive; the Russian was tougher than he looked and more determined than even this rootless flower.  
  
  
  
Napoleon picked his way down the hillside and along a single lane road as he headed towards the little town at the bottom.  From a distance he saw the little settlement that was fronted by a sign welcoming visitors to Higginsville Alabama.  The only reason Solo could imagine for Beecham setting up shop here in this location was its complete isolation from traffic corridors and big cities.  As he considered just how isolated it was, Napoleon began to wonder if there really would be telephone service; it was not uncommon in these backwoods communities to be severely separated from modern conveniences.  It was a way of life the city-bred agent found incongruous with modern America.  
  
Nearing his target Napoleon prepped himself for the encounter.  
  
 _‘Okay, Solo, smile pretty for the people._ ’  
  
The first building at the edge of town was a little restaurant, typical for the setting he thought.  At least they could offer direction to the local police or … whatever served as the law.  
  
 _Surely someone would have a line to the outside world_.  
  
As Napoleon approached the door a young man was exiting; his final words back to whoever remained inside a cheery farewell.  
  
“Excuse me, do you happen to know if there is a phone inside?  I ran into a bit of car trouble and… well, I’m hoping to call for help.”  
  
The young man looked Napoleon up and down, mentally figuring what type of car trouble could create the kind of battered and torn appearance that this stranger exhibited.  
  
“Car trouble, eh?  Musta been some kind of … ‘  
  
At the look on Napoleon’s face, he stopped short.  
  
“Shure, there’s a phone inside.  Are you gonna need any other kind of help, mister?  You look like the car got the best of you.”  
  
Napoleon smiled at that.  
  
“I appreciate the offer.  No, I think my office will be able to send out anything I need.  Hopefully it won’t take very long, I still … ah… have some pressing business to take care of.”  
  
A knowing expression passed between them, something that surprised Napoleon and amused the younger man.  
  
“My name is Jeremy Loggins.  See that garage down the street…’  
  
He extended his arm towards the only direction the street ran.  
  
“That’s mine.  You let me know if you need anything.  Tell Vergie we spoke.”  
  
Napoleon extended his hand, genuinely grateful to have made contact with someone who might prove useful, and who seemed already to understand there was more at stake here than a broken down car.  
  
“Napoleon Solo.  Thank you Jeremy, I might need a lift back if I can’t get through to my … people.  I’ll let you know.”  
  
With that, Jeremy gave a casual salute with his cap and headed back to his garage, his gait, Napoleon now noticed, slightly one sided as he favored his left leg.  The agent made a mental note of it, wondering if it was a wound from an accident or possibly combat.  Soldiers were beginning to return from Vietnam, some of them maimed for life both physically and emotionally.  It was a fleeting thought, brought to a close as Napoleon opened the door to the restaurant and sought out Vergie.  
  
The interior was decorated with gingham and oilcloth, and smelled of fried onions and coffee.  It was a pungent sensory image that stopped Napoleon in his tracks and made him instantly hungry.  The blonde woman behind the counter watched as he approached her, aware that he had been talking with Jeremy outside her door.  There was only one other customer, a man in overalls who was just finishing his breakfast.  He watched as Napoleon approached the woman.  
  
“Hello, are you Vergie?”  
  
The smile that accompanied the question left the buxom waitress slightly breathless.   _When was the last time she’d seen a man this good looking?_  
  
Too long was her silent answer.  
  
“Yes sir, that’s me.  What can I do for yooo?”  
  
Napoleon immediately thought of YooHoo, a chocolate drink that Illya had discovered and stocked up on.  The American suspected that he spiked it with vodka late at night.  
  
“I was just speaking with a young man, Jeremy Loggins.  He mentioned that you have a phone that I might use.’  
  
Another sniff of the aromas coming from the kitchen reminded Napoleon that he hadn’t eaten for a couple of days.  
  
“I’m afraid I lost my wallet somewhere after my … um… accident…”  
  
Vergie took a breath and almost choked.  
  
“Accident? Are you all right?  Here, you better sit down and let me get you somethin’ to eat or drink… Are you hungry?”  
  
Napoleon was starving, now that he thought about it.  Of course he thought of Illya in that moment, something that subdued his appetite very quickly.  Still, he should eat something…  
  
“You are very kind, Vergie…’  
  
The smile again.  She would have given him anything at this point.  
  
“Some coffee, perhaps.  I don’t want to take advantage.”  
  
Vergie put her hand on Napoleon’s arm in a comforting pat.  
  
“Honey, ain’t no advantage bein’ taken.  The phone’s over there on the wall, you just make your call and I’ll get you some coffee and breakfast.  I can’t have you faintin’ in the middle of the restaurant, now can I?”  
  
“No, we wouldn’t want that.”  
  
Napoleon kissed her on the cheek and sauntered off towards the phone.  Sometimes it was essential to know that he ‘had it’.  
  
The man who had been watching this encounter rose from his seat, leaving a small tip and then hollering back to Vergie his thanks.  
  
“Just leave your money on the counter, Jake.  See ya tomorrah!”  
  
Jake nodded, his curiosity about the stranger supplanted now by his daily routine.  
  
Beecham came back to his hall of terror to find his guard crumpled by the door, dead.  Illya was conscious but in a great deal of pain, not able to even struggle again his bonds.  Recognizing the obvious, Beecham chastised himself for thinking that one agent wouldn’t leave without the other.  Waverly had trained them well, had instilled in them that notion about being expendable.  THRUSH would do well to mimic that line of reasoning; it was seldom that one found a willingness towards self-sacrifice among his kind.  
  
Looking now at the Russian, Beecham warmed to the idea of leaving a dead body for the UNCLE team he knew must surely be on its way.  Kuryakin had suffered the most, partly because the Englishman had a genuine hatred for the Soviet Union.  It mattered little to him that this one worked for someone other than the KGB, although he thought it likely the man had done so at some point or other.  
  
Beecham’s wife, also a member of THRUSH, had been caught and executed for espionage in 1955.  For all he knew, Kuryakin might have even been a part of that.  It didn’t matter now, every Russian was suspect and therefore liable to feel the weight of Beecham’s vindictive agenda.  Even without Solo present to witness his work, the THRUSH chief determined to continue his vendetta with Kuryakin as the receptor of his wrath.  
  
Illya was only vaguely aware of Beecham’s presence in the room.  After Napoleon had escaped, the relief of his departure had left the Russian without any resolve to remain awake.  He had drifted off into a restless sleep, his body constantly sending and receiving notices of the pain that seemed to emanate from every part of his being.  
  
Having been beaten mercilessly by the steroid enhanced musclemen employed by Beecham, Illya was convinced the only thing left would be electric shock or some other typical THRUSH method.  Beecham didn’t seem to want information, only the thrill of the brutality.  What came next was both horrifying and nearly fatal to the small blond agent.  In an ironic nod to Kuryakin’s proclivity for finding unusual reading material, Beecham opened the conversation with a book review.  
  
“Have you read the expose written by * [Henri Alleg](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Question)?  It really is a harrowing account of his torture at the hands of his own government.’  
  
Beecham clucked his tongue, tisking at the lack of response from the ailing man to whom he spoke.  
  
“Ah, perhaps not.  Well, in the book he describes something very diabolical called  _waterboarding_.  Perhaps you’ve heard of it, nasty business that.  I imagine it’s that much worse when a man has been beaten to within an inch of his life, such as you have been, dear boy.”  
  
Illya was alert now, instantly so at the term  _waterboarding_.  Of course he knew of it, he was Soviet, after all.  Still, he didn’t respond to the taunt.  
  
Beecham continued, confident that he could instill some form of terror, even in the stoic Kuryakin.  
  
“So, I thought to myself … Why not try it out on our own Russian pig.  You are Russian, after all, and none of you are fit to live.  My Sophie, she was a beautiful woman and so dear to me…’  
  
A recollection seemed to divert Beecham’s attention momentarily.  Illya had heard the story, knew the ill-placed blame for which he was now being punished.  
  
“… But then, you know all about her.  Many others like her, I’m certain, must have come your way.  Tell me, Kuryakin, did you help to kill my Sophie?”  
  
Illya didn’t bother to respond; Beecham wasn’t looking for an answer.  
  
“Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it.  You’ll pay just the same.  You can be the sacrificial lamb and assuage my need for retribution just a little.”  
  
During this one-sided conversation Beecham had been busy rearranging Illya’s confinement slightly, under the watchful eyes of a new guard.  The Russian’s arms were extended to the side and above his head, his feet spread apart so that he was, more or less, spread-eagle.  Having secured him in this position, Beecham lifted the blond head and tied a piece of cloth around it so that his face was completely covered.  At the last he released Illya’s head so that it fell to the board beneath him, nearly knocking him unconscious.  
  
“There, now we’re ready.”  
  
With those words the guard handed Beecham a bucket of water that he poured over Illya’s face, causing a violent reaction as his body convulsed from the shock of the cold and wet.  It was impossible to breath, gasping from beneath the cloth a futile attempt to get air.  Beecham repeated this action several times, each time with the same  physical response from Kuryakin as his body involuntarily reacted to the need to be free from the confinement, to not drown.  
  
By the fourth time Illya felt inclined to simply let the water do its work.  He was beyond exhausted, his body broken and his lungs burning from the experience.  Suddenly, the cloth was removed and he gasped for air like a drowning man, literally, coming up from the depths.  
  
Beecham hovered over his face as Illya looked out from eyes strained by near asphyxiation.  
  
“Don’t you wish you had something to tell me, old man?  Pity is, there’s nothing I need from you except the sight of you dying.”  
  
With that said, Beecham replaced the cloth while the guard held onto Illya’s head, unfazed by his struggling.  Thusly shrouded once again, water was poured even more liberally than before.  Jerking violently against his bonds, Illya felt a bone snap in his left wrist.  He was unable to sort his thoughts, his only instinct was survival against what seemed, finally, insurmountable odds.  
  
Napoleon made the phone call to UNCLE Headquarters via landline connections that finally put him in touch with New York.  As much as he felt the fatigue and discomfort of his time under Beecham’s mistreatment, he was aware of the need for expediency.  Illya was in grave danger at the hands of their THRUSH adversary, and every minute not spent rescuing his partner was sure to be time in which Beecham would continue to torture the Russian.  
  
“Mr. Solo?  I’ve expected to hear from you before now.”  
  
“Mr. Waverly, we did locate Wilfred Beecham…”  
  
“But?”  
  
Napoleon always hated this part.  
  
“Sir, I regret to say that we were not completely successful.  Mr. Kuryakin and I were caught in the act of planting some explosives.  I have managed to escape, and can lead a team back to Beecham’s facility.”  
  
“And Mr. Kuryakin?”  
  
It was hard to continue on, knowing how he had left his partner.  
  
“I alone escaped, sir.  Mr. Kuryakin was … he wasn’t in any shape to travel sir, and insisted …”  
  
“Yes, as well he might.  I understand, Mr. Solo.  The phone call has been traced to a … Higginsville Alabama.  Is that correct?”  
  
“Yes sir, I’m at a little restaurant here …”  
  
“Yes, yes… Your team will arrive by helicopter within the hour.  I hardly think you’ll need to look for them.  Is there anything else, Mr. Solo?”  
  
It was now a matter of hopeful thinking to ask for this accommodation.  
  
“I expect Mr. Kuryakin to need medical attention, sir.  If you …”  
  
“There will be medical personnel on the aircraft.  Take care, Mr. Solo, I do not relish the idea of losing my top men to Wilfred Beecham … or anyone else, for that matter.  Waverly out.”  
  
The final click of the transmission found Napoleon deep in thought as he hoped against hope that his partner would survive.  
  
Beecham removed the face cloth once more.  Illya’s face was bruised and bloated from the torture.  He had ingested more water than his system could reasonably accept, and now the tormentor, in another act of insufferable cruelty, smashed his fist into the Russian’s stomach, causing him to retch and expel in a violent fashion the water he had swallowed.  
  
Gasping for air, Illya almost welcomed the thought of death compared to this agony.  His lungs ached from the violence, and his ability to hang on to consciousness was compromised by oxygen deprivation.  In a final attempt at rational thought, Illya surmised that he might have some type of brain damage at the end of this, then mentally scolded himself for not realizing that he would most likely be dead; brain damage of a permanent nature.  
  
Napoleon had no alternative to waiting, so he gratefully accepted the cup of coffee that Vergie brought to his table, as well as the subsequent plate of eggs, sausage and the obligatory biscuits with gravy.  
  
“Thank you, Vergie.  I promise to come back here and pay for this meal.”  
  
The jolly woman was more concerned about Napoleon’s well being than the cost of his breakfast.  What she wouldn’t give to keep him around a little longer.  
  
“Don’t you worry about that, Mr. Solo.  I just hope you get your car fixed and everything turns out fine.”  
  
Napoleon wondered what Vergie would think when that helicopter landed in the middle of the street out front.  He had just enough time to finish his breakfast and entertain Vergie with a little idle chit chat before he tested that question.  The sound of the helicopter nearing his location alerted Napoleon to the need to extricate himself from the homey environs of the little restaurant and its proprietor.  
  
“Uh, Vergie, I think I hear my ride …”  
  
Vergie’s eyes got big as she heard the sound of the approaching aircraft.  
  
“You mean that noise is …?”  
  
“Yes, my company is very efficient.  I meant what I said, you’ll see me again and I’m going to pay you for this meal, I promise.”  
  
Napoleon kissed the dumbstruck blonde on her plump cheek, causing her to blush and stammer out a muffled reply that neither could decipher.  The agent was out the door and heading for the copter, getting a hand up from an agent who was waiting at the open doorway.  
  
“Hello Mr. Solo… welcome aboard.”  
  
Beneath the roar of the motor and the rotors, Napoleon introduced himself to the four other agents, all in assault gear and ready to storm the compound where Wilfred Beecham was holding Illya Kuryakin.  They wanted Beecham stopped, but they particularly wanted to retrieve their fellow agent.  Each man was prepared for action and results.  
  
The aircraft rose into the air just as it had arrived, with a few townspeople looking up and wondering if the Russians had finally landed on American soil.  It would be up to Vergie to fill them in on the story, for years to come.  
  
For now the goal was to find a spot to land near enough to Beecham’s compound but out of sight.  When the pilot, utilizing Napoleon’s directions, spotted a small opening in the forest he headed down for a perfect landing.  The other agents were ready to go, their plan of action quickly assembled during the brief ride.  
  
“Watkins, you and Henry go around back.  The security here is lax compared to some THRUSH locations.  This is Beecham’s personal property and probably not completely sanctioned by Central.  The men he has with him are loyal, and now more likely to be on the alert.  Illya is located downstairs in a basement.  Johnson, you and I are going in the front door.”  
  
James Dawson, the pilot, would be left with the chopper.  They weren’t taking any chances on losing this aircraft.  As the men disembarked from their ride, Napoleon led the way to Beecham’s cabin.  
  
Stealthily and swiftly through the woods the four men moved, their silent communication the result of their years as UNCLE agents.  At a strategic point the two pairs separated, Watkins and Henry going around to the back of the aging cabin structure while Napoleon and Johnson advanced onto the front porch.  Two THRUSH guards were quickly dispatched by the CEA and his companion.  On the count of three they kicked in the front door, dropping to the floor and taking aim at two more guards.  As the bodies dropped to the floor the UNCLE agents were up again and moving.  
  
At the back of the cabin Watkins and Henry were equally proficient in eliminating the guards.  As they entered the cabin they heard the soft  _pffts_  of silencers and knew the front of the house was secure.  
  
The four men met in the living area of the cabin where Napoleon took the lead and headed downstairs to the basement.  He assumed that Beecham would be there, still in the process of torturing Solo’s partner.  Each man prepared for the possibility of what they might find, only one of them able to hope for more.  
  
Descending down the steep wooden stairs, there seemed to be some sort of activity going on below this assault team.  Beecham was speaking, almost cooing as though speaking to a pet.  
  
“There, there my little Russian brat.  I realize it is merely the misfortune of your birth that places you here, but still… someone has to pay for the sins of the parent.  Since you have been left to die alone, perhaps your greatest regret will be the fact that your partner abandoned you, rather than being the object of my wrath.”  
  
The soothing tones were a contradiction to the venomous dialogue, and Illya was beyond cognizance to analyze it.  Every effort to hang on to consciousness was embattled with a desire to simply be done with it all. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the torment, he heard a familiar voice.  
  
“Step away Beecham.  We have your house secured, your men are dead.  It’s all over for you.”  
  
Napoleon approached the embittered old man, checking him for arms before handcuffing him to an exposed pipe.  The other three men double checked the room including the guard they had disabled upon entering.  Illya still lay in the same position with his arms above his head and his legs spread.  Napoleon removed the cloth that was still on his head, unsure of the purpose of it.  He cut the bindings and tried to move his partner off the slanted board on which he lay.  
  
“What is this … what have you been doing to him?”  
  
The question was full of anger, directed to the despicable man who had tortured Kuryakin.  Illya was barely able to sit, his body marked with bruises and other random signs of brutal treatment.  Watkins removed his jacket and helped the Russian into it while Henry stripped the guard’s trousers from the prone body.  
  
“Here Illya, put these on.”  
  
Illya was grateful for the clothing, but he found it impossible to control his movements; Henry assisted the injured man, wondering at the seemingly limitless capacity some people had for injuring others.  
  
Beecham, meanwhile, observed the scene and scowled at the questions directed at him.  It had come to this, he would be taken back to Alexander Waverly and paraded through UNCLE’s corridors as the vanquished foe that he now was.  All of these years, and he had gone down with barely a whimper.  He might actually welcome death if this was the best he could do; his life had been empty since losing his beloved Sophie.  
  
It was a matter of less than an hour to call in the location to headquarters, get Illya loaded onto the chopper and depart for Atlanta.  Watkins and Henry remained behind to wait for the clean up crew and finish searching the premises for additional information.  This wasn’t an official THRUSH operation, but with Beecham’s background it was possible he might have something of importance regarding that organization’s plans.  
  
The flight to Atlanta was fairly quick and the medical team there went to work immediately upon the arrival of the patient.  Illya’s wrist was set, his injuries tended.  The psychological effect of his torture was an unknown, and it wasn’t until an incident with the shower that anyone had an inkling of the severity of what he had undergone.  
On the second day in the hospital Illya was allowed to take a shower.  Napoleon was in the room, ready to help if necessary.  A nurse was also present, and it was she who turned on the shower and waited for him to enter.  What happened next was a shock to all three of them.  
  
“I… I cannot … please, let me out of here.”  
  
Napoleon heard Illya’s voice pleading for something over the sound of the water.  Then the Russian was backing out the bathroom and dropping to the floor in a crouching position.  Going to his partner’s side was an immediate reaction, but Solo was unprepared for the sight of his friend cowering in response to the sound of running water.  
  
“What the … Illya?  Come on buddy, get up.  You don’t have to take the shower, just get up and …”  
  
Under his breath the American cursed whatever had been done to his partner.  
  
  
Napoleon directed the blond back to his bed, the dejected figure so unlike the normally confident and stoic man.  Illya turned his back to the room and refused to speak.  
  
It was a matter of a few minutes before the attending physician and the Atlanta office psychiatrist were on the scene.  Napoleon observed but did not interfere with their treatment of his partner, although he was beginning to get an idea of the severity of the torture Illya had endured.  He had picked up a copy of the book Beecham mentioned to Kuryakin; it was a snippet of conversation that the Russian had relayed to his friend.  Reading the account of this Frenchman’s experience was chilling to the American, and now he realized that Illya had been subjected to the same thing and would probably go through similar reactions that the writer detailed, at least for a period of time.  
  
“I’m so sorry, tovarisch.  It isn’t enough, but I’ll be here for you.”  
  
That was the promise he was making to Illya as the Russian drifted off to a drug induced sleep.  It was the same promise they each made to the other at times like this, but it was one they always kept.  No matter how long it took, Napoleon was certain his friend would recover and they would put another turbulent affair behind them.  
  
In the meantime, Solo would help his friend heal.  
  
~~~~~:  
*The book [Le Question ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Question)  


 


End file.
